


There is a Flame That Never Dies

by abdicatedempress, Audrey_Lynne



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All The Ships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Asshole Best Friends, Awesome Bahorel, Canon Era, Character Death, Chronic Illness, Cosette And Enjolras Are Siblings, Deja Vu, Demisexuality, Depression, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras' Squish on Feuilly, F/M, Female Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel Don't Have a Smush Name, Flashbacks, Hospitalization, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Never a Lawyer, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, OT3, Other, Paris Uprising 1832, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Sad and Happy, Team Fuck Shit Up, Zayn Malik is Feuilly Because Perfection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abdicatedempress/pseuds/abdicatedempress, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/pseuds/Audrey_Lynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Paris, 1832, a group of students known as Les Amis de l'ABC fought to overthrow the monarchy, to bring freedom to the people of France.  Nine of that group, along with others, would sacrifice their lives for the cause.</p><p>They weren't very good at sitting back and enjoying the afterlife.  And, so, they would return to try to change the world once more.</p><p>In Paris, 2012, there is a need for social change.  A group of students has united to do their part.  This time, there are no armies trying to kill them.  Life has a way of throwing all manner other things in their paths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paris, 1832

**Author's Note:**

> ...There's probably a lot of tags I'm forgetting, and those that will be added with plot points to come.
> 
> Anyhow, Jace (abdicatedempress) and I have been playing with a delightful reincarnation 'verse and I decided it was time to bring it to fic. The quotes you recognize come from the brick and one is from the musical. The canon era bits are more brick-compliant than the musical, but there's inspiration from both. - Audrey Lynne

It was a muggy June night – and, thus, in Grantaire's opinion, a horrible night to be out manning a barricade. Then, as far as he was concerned, there was no good night for such a thing, so he supposed it didn't really matter. Nonetheless, his friends were here, and so he was as well. Even if he was convinced they were doomed, these were the only people save his sister he cared about, and he wouldn't leave them. There had already been one spy trying to infiltrate their ranks; no doubt there would be more.

 

“Hmm, you look troubled,” Jean Prouvaire purred, sitting next to Grantaire and curling around him.

 

Grantaire smiled fondly, cupping Jehan's cheek with his hand. “You know how I feel about this whole affair.”

 

“I do,” Jehan said, nodding. “There is still time for you to leave. It would be a great relief to me to know you were safe.”

 

“And I would do nothing but worry about you, along with everyone else here,” Grantaire countered, stealing a quick kiss. The two Romantics had found solace in one another many times over the years, but in recent months, they had grown closer. A monarchist had made an attempt on Enjolras' life at a gathering, and Grantaire had been close enough to intervene, receiving a knife in his side for his trouble. Jehan had stayed with him as he'd recovered, reading poetry, providing much-needed company. Grantaire still longed for the day Enjolras would see him as more than an annoyance, but he wasn't so stupid as to pass up the warmth of Jehan's open arms. He loved the poet, in a different and probably healthier way than he did Enjolras, but that didn't make it any less valid.

 

“Enjolras, you mean.” Jehan did have it in him to be catty, but the teasing curve to his lips gave him away this time.

 

“Everyone.” Grantaire nudged Jehan's shoulder playfully. “He was already angry enough when I intervened on his behalf last time.”

 

Jehan settled close, smiling as he rested his head on Grantaire's shoulder. “Try not to take it too personally. He did appreciate your effort, but he could never admit it. Perhaps not even to himself. He has something of a martyr complex. It is one of Combeferre's most constant worries.”

 

Grantaire snorted. “Well, then let the man martyr himself and avoid taking the rest of us with him.”

 

Jehan made a face, clearly unconvinced of Grantaire's sincerity. “You don't mean that.”

 

“Perhaps not.” Grantaire was troubled, and he began to comb his fingers through Jehan's hair to calm himself. “Still, nothing about this sits right with me. Call me a naysayer if you will, but I find it foolish to hand over our lives to the Guard. The people of Paris will cheer at any talk of freedom, but they require more than talk to spur them to action.”

 

“They will rise.” As melancholy as he could be at times, Jehan was an optimist at heart, at least when it came to things like revolution. “You may not believe in them, but I do.”

 

“How fortunate for you,” Grantaire muttered, but it lacked the heat he might have given anyone else.

 

Jehan punched him in the arm lightly. “You know how much this would mean, not just to us, but to everyone. Think of a world where Marcelline can raise her children without the tyranny of the king.”

 

Grantaire frowned. “That's hardly fair, bringing my sister into it.”

 

“Oh, I find it perfectly fair, as she stands to benefit.” Jehan grinned, the light coming into his eyes that accompanied any discussion of something he was passionate about. “This cause, it isn't about us or our ideals. It's about all the people. That we all might be equal under the law, and in the eyes of each other.”

 

“If you insist.” It did sound nice, but Grantaire had long ago learned that hope was a dangerous thing. Hope always let him down. Pessimism, on the other hand, left room for him to occasionally be pleasantly surprised. He continued to stroke Jehan's hair, shifting so that Jehan was in front of him, leaning against his chest. “Let me braid your hair.”

 

Jehan smiled, reaching up to untie the ribbon that held his ponytail in place. “Of course.” It was a bonding ritual between them. He closed his eyes happily, relaxing as Grantaire started his work, careful not to pull at any tangles.

 

Alas, their reverie didn't last long. Grantaire had only just finished tying the ribbon in place on Jehan's braid when the barricade was attacked. And they were on their feet, running to defend it. Jehan fought for the cause. Grantaire fought for his friends. At some level, their reasons weren't really so different.

 

Even Grantaire, for all of his cynicism, couldn't help feeling touched as the old man Mabeuf sacrificed his life to retrieve their flag and wave it in the face of the Guard. He smiled sadly as Enjolras placed a kiss on the man's forehead, glancing at Combeferre. “That might just be the first kiss Enjolras has given anyone in his life.” There was no need to comment on it, really, but Grantaire was hardly known for his sense of propriety.

 

“As far as I know, it is.” Combeferre's smile was a little wistful, and – not for the first time – Grantaire wondered if he might not be the only one longing for Enjolras' affection. Combeferre was certainly much closer to the front of the line, if Enjolras ever moved on from his infatuation with ideals.

 

Marius Pontmercy was hardly the one Grantaire would have expected to save the barricade, but that was exactly what ended up happening. Marius, with his special brand of insanity, saving them all by threatening to blow them up. The world was a strange place indeed.

 

They'd lost Bahorel, but they barely had time to mourn before an even more pressing situation was evident. The headcount had come up one short, and that one was Jehan. The enemy had him. Grantaire tried to suppress his panic as he charged into the cafe, determined to find out what exactly Enjolras intended to do about this. He arrived in time to catch the tail end of Enjolras and Combeferre's discussion.

 

“Are you set on the death of that spy?” Combeferre asked. He'd already argued against it.

 

“Yes,” Enjolras replied, blunt as ever, “but less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire.”

 

That, Grantaire could live with. He stalked back out to the street as Combeferre began to throw out a plan, just in time to hear a scuffle from the other side of the barricade. Then, Jehan's voice – strong, clear, unafraid. “Vive la France! Long live the future!”

 

A gunshot. Then silence.

 

Grantaire fell to his knees, a wordless noise of protest coming from somewhere deep inside. He wanted to scream, to cry, but he couldn't. He thought he heard Enjolras vowing to kill the spy, but he couldn't bother to care. Jehan had been his one true comfort in a world that was too often cold and dark. And he'd died as boldly as he'd lived, like Bahorel. Another dear friend, lying dead because of this futile fight. But Jehan had been so much more. And Grantaire had been too wrapped up in his worship of Enjolras to notice sooner, but he had no control over his heart. And now that heart was broken. He felt Bossuet's strong hands on his arms, helping him to his feet, rubbing his back. Joly wasn't far behind, both moving to flank him.

 

“Shall we have a drink, for Jehan?” Joly asked gently. Clearly, he knew better than to ask if Grantaire was all right.

 

Grantaire nodded. A drink was exactly what he needed, and not just one. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

Combeferre smiled, glancing at their friends who had assembled for the impromptu memorial. Enjolras had retreated, claiming he needed to focus on strategies for the morning ahead. Combeferre would let him be for a bit. Marius had stumbled in, a bit morose after his friend Eponine had been killed on her return to the barricade. He and Combeferre had never been close, exactly, but Combeferre could sympathize and had pulled the young man into the Corinthe where they'd gathered.

 

Joly poured the last of the drinks, passing them around. He was the one who offered the actual toast, a sad smile on his lips. “To our absent friends. As we mourn their deaths, may we never forget to celebrate all the days of their lives.”

 

Grantaire made a choked-sounding noise as he joined in, though this was obviously far from his first drink. “Beautiful. Jehan would be damn proud.”

 

Joly teared a bit, rubbing Grantaire's shoulder. “I try.” He finished his drink, then moved to check on the wounded. Combeferre joined him.

 

“I worry about R,” Joly commented once they were safely out of earshot. “These last few months, he and Jehan...”

 

“I know.” Combeferre nodded. “I worry for him too. They've been much like yourself and Bossuet, though without Musichetta.”

 

Joly chuckled darkly. “True, though I very much doubt either of them would have minded if Enjolras had opted to fill that role.” He held his hands up defensively. “I kid. Though perhaps it was still in poor taste. I know how you feel about him.”

 

“It is what it is.” Combeferre had resigned himself to that long ago, and come to terms with it. “Enjolras has eyes only for his Patria. I am content to be his friend.”

 

“And that you most definitely are.” Joly smiled, kneeling down to check the bandage of an injured, unconscious student. “To be honest, I have no idea how he would function without you. And Courfeyrac.”

 

Combeferre smiled as well. “We do seem to complement each other nicely.” He rifled through the bag of medical supplies, pulling out a fresh bandage for Joly to work with and a salve to apply to the wound.

 

“That's an understatement.” Joly finished with the bandage, moving on to the next of their patients while Combeferre looked at another. “It's a good thing. Friends like we have here are rare gems.”

 

Combeferre couldn't agree with that more. He was glad to have such friends in his life. “Though we may not all survive here, there are things that never die.”

 

“Now who's channeling Jehan?” Joly teased.

 

Combeferre inclined his head slightly in admission. “Like you, that is a legacy I'm proud to follow. He was valiant, even to the end.”

 

“Do you think he was afraid?” Joly asked quietly, stepping away as he completed his work.

 

“Courage is not the absence of fear.” Combeferre rinsed his hands as he finished up as well, then patted Joly's arm. “I'm sure he was afraid. I hate that he was alone. But he was brave, and that's what we must remember.”

 

Joly nodded as he cleaned up. “You're right, as usual.”

 

Combeferre squeezed Joly's arm for support, steering him toward the door. Most of the survivors had settled down for the night. “Come now, let's enjoy our time with the living.”

* * *

 

 

Many had accused Grantaire over the years of trying to drink himself to death, though that was never his intention. He was mostly ambivalent on the matter of his own death. But while he drank for many reasons, including to numb the pain of life, his point in it had never been to die. Not until that night, anyhow.

 

Enjolras, to his credit, had at least stopped to try to talk to Grantaire, even if Courfeyrac had put him up to it. He'd offered awkward condolences, which Grantaire had been in no mood to receive. If he'd been less drunk, less hurting, he might have tried to cherish it as a moment in which Enjolras wasn't completely disgusted with him. But he was beyond that. Enjolras had finally shrunk away when Grantaire had sobbed, “He was _my_ Patria!”

 

To be fair, it was probably less the words and more the fact that Grantaire had tried to wipe his face on Enjolras' shirt at that point. Grantaire was too far gone to even be embarrassed.

 

Like most things in Grantaire's life, however, drinking himself to death hadn't gone as planned. He had passed out, under a table that had been too small to be of use to the barricade. The noise of the battle hadn't awakened him, but the silence that followed did. He stumbled out from behind it, blinking at the unexpected daylight. Hidden by the table, he hadn't even been killed by the soldiers on their rampage through what was left of the place. Just his luck. He was too stunned to even properly grieve his friends as he came upon their bodies. Feuilly, who'd spent his last hours of peace carving a message for those who would come behind them to see. Joly, who couldn't fly without his eagle, fallen near Bossuet's body. And then there were the soldiers, and – Enjolras.

 

Enjolras was alive, proud and defiant, clutching their red flag. The soldiers surrounded him, and something came over Grantaire in that moment. Jehan had died alone; Enjolras shouldn't have to. None of them should have. And if Jehan, in that horrible moment, could fight back, Grantaire owed it to him to at least try to do the same. “Long live the revolution!” he called out, remembering Jehan's final words. He wasn't worthy of echoing them exactly. “I'm one of them.”

 

He hadn't been before, but now he was. This was his chance at redemption. To make something of himself, finally.

 

Enjolras looked equal parts surprised and horrified. His eyes darted toward the stairs, a possible escape route for Grantaire, but Grantaire pressed forward, pushing past the line of soldiers. “I'm one of them,” he repeated. “Take us both at one shot.” But was he really worthy to share this moment? Enjolras would finally get his martyrdom; did he _want_ to face it alone? Grantaire offered his hand to Enjolras, asking quietly, “Do you permit it?”

 

Enjolras answered not with words, but by taking Grantaire's hand and smiling softly. A beautiful smile he had never before graced Grantaire with, and it didn't fade when the shots were fired. Grantaire's last sensation was a searing pain as Enjolras' hand fell from his, and then there was darkness.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Tale as Old as Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people just don't know how to sit back and enjoy the afterlife.

Some things about humanity were totally undefinable, even to a being that had spent several millennia studying them and their ways. Gabriella knew this, and she had long since given up on trying to unravel those mysteries. She focused on what she knew, and what she did know was that some people – particularly those who had been out to change the world while they were in it – grew restless with all of eternity at their disposal. She'd seen it time and time again.

 

Scientists lasted the longest; they would spend a good three hundred years trying to work out the secrets of the life beyond. Great teachers fell somewhere in the middle. They were initially fascinated with their new surroundings, but grew bored eventually. Gabriella could understand that; the only ones who needed much education this side of things were the newcomers, and that window of opportunity was short. Revolutionaries, by far, had the shortest shelf life. They weren't above taking some much-needed rest, awed by a realm more perfect than they could have imagined. But when everything was perfect, there was nothing to change. They, like many others, watched out for their loved ones left behind. But once those left had crossed over, the figurative clock started ticking. Gabriella hadn't seen one last much longer than a hundred fifty or so years. And then it was time for them to go back.

 

They didn't return to their exact same lives, of course. Time had passed. It was possible, technically, as Gabriella wasn't bound by any laws of time that humanity understood. She allowed them complete free will, taking control of their destinies only after their earthbound lives had ended. Then she brought them across and set them free once more. It wasn't a bad job, really. But some souls, understandably, did want a little peace and quiet in the afterlife, so the kindest thing to do was to ship the restless ones right back where they'd come from. They weren't supposed to remember their lives before, but they usually did – bits and pieces. Another of those mysteries of the human mind Gabriella hadn't yet deciphered. The flashes of memory could be problematic if they didn't learn to process them properly. It seemed to help when the bodies they came to inhabit had some link to their past, through either blood or memory. She did the best she could. Sometimes, when it was truly needed, she'd let someone they knew on her side of things give them a helping hand. That was always so dicey, though. As the centuries had passed, certain humans had become just a little too excited about paranormal investigation for Gabriella's comfort. She had her own set of secrets, and they were secrets for a reason.

 

Typically, Gabriella had the luxury of only dealing with returning one or two souls at a time to the mortal plane. Finding placement for an entire group of them was proving tricky. Not only did she have her merry band of revolutionaries, but there had been other souls who had come into their lives that they wouldn't do well without. This wasn't an uncommon issue, but Gabriella was used to working in twos and threes. Finding just the right bodies for them to be born into, at just the right times, in close enough proximity that their paths were sure to cross naturally...it was enough to give her a headache, if such human frailties had actually been a problem for her. And, so, if a few genders were altered in the process, a few new relationships arranged, it was what it was. Gabriella had faith they'd make it work.

 

And if they didn't, well, eventually they'd be back with her and there would be another chance. One thing she'd come to accept in her line of work was that perfection was in the eye of the beholder.


	3. Paris, 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire takes a chance and heads to a meeting, if only to get Bahorel off his back. He doesn't expect it to be as familiar as it is. Meanwhile, Enjolras continues to have problems with processing emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry this took so long! So, yeah, if the tags and the hints in the last chapter didn't clue you in, there are a few things here and there different about this reincarnation 'verse. Experimenting with slightly varied takes, but keeping the characters' core personalities intact.
> 
> In case you were curious about the faceclaims for this AU, they're here for the modern Amis... http://xflamethatneverdiesx.tumblr.com/post/102122037477/fancast-for-the-flame-that-never-dies-modern-au
> 
> And, for reference, the canon faceclaims -  
> http://xflamethatneverdiesx.tumblr.com/post/102121253447/themindhasitscharms-faceclaims-1832-fancast
> 
> The other supporting players, I'll be adding soon after I finish "casting" the last few. :) Enjoy!

* * *

 

Grantaire wrapped his coat tighter around himself as he walked down the street from his apartment to the cafe on the corner. He hated the cold, and he wouldn't have gone out in it under most circumstances. But, having just been released from the hospital, he was tired of being cooped up, and Bahorel's long-standing invitation had finally grown too tempting to resist.

 

Social justice was not exactly Grantaire's forte; he was a fan of improving the world, but also a realist. People had to want things to change, and too many of them didn't give a crap about anything that didn't affect them personally. And he'd met far too many activists in his time who ended up crushed under the weight of their own self-importance. But Bahorel seemed to like this group, _Les Amis de l'ABC_. And Grantaire trusted Bahorel's judgment, though a few of their adventures together suggested that might not have always been the best policy.

 

If nothing else, the Cafe Musain had alcohol.

 

Considering this latest hospitalization had the fringe benefit of medically easing the physical effects of alcohol withdrawal – somehow, they hadn't thought letting him drag his IV down to the local liquor store was a good idea – he probably should have at least made some effort to give the bottle up for good. But, as maladaptive as it was, he found comfort in his vice. He'd cut back, not let it get so out of control that he'd have to deal with detoxing again once he was ready to quit, or sick again. But life without some sort of numbing agent was something he had no desire to face.

 

The cafe was old, and the door rattled behind Grantaire as he entered. The boisterous sounds from the second floor – along with a hand-drawn sign pointing to the stairs – indicated the meeting was upstairs, and he sighed. “There would have to be stairs,” he muttered to himself. He considered leaving, but going home meant dealing with the cold again, only to be greeted with another night alone. Also, a different flight of stairs. And so he made his way up these, smiling as Bahorel caught sight of him and bounded over.

 

“Taire!” Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “You came! Finally.”

 

“I just got here, and you're already telling me to shut up?” Grantaire teased. He laughed as he followed Bahorel to a table in the corner. “I figured if I did, you'd finally leave me alone about it.”

 

“Well, it took you long enough,” Bahorel snorted. “Where have you been? Haven't seen you around lately.”

 

“Oh, I've been here and there.” Grantaire shrugged. He hated talking about his health; it felt too much like fishing for sympathy. Or maybe that was just because his parents had never given a damn about it when he was a kid, so he assumed no one else did either. “So give me the lowdown on this band of do-gooders. Especially the blond one over there.”

 

Bahorel laughed. “That's Enjolras, our chief. He's good people, but it can be hard to get to know him. Enjoy the eye candy in the meantime. He _is_ rather pretty. Not my type, but I can see the draw.”

 

“Rather pretty?” Grantaire asked. “I've seen less attractive depictions of Greek gods.”

 

“Eh, I've got my eyes elsewhere.” Bahorel shrugged.

 

Grantaire perked up. “Speaking of that, whatever happened with you and that cute Pakistani guy from school you told me were flirting with?”

  
Bahorel nudged him, a little harder than was strictly necessary. “Shh, not so loud.” He nodded toward the stairs, where a man who matched the descriptions Bahorel had provided was coming in. “That's Feuilly. He's great. And, yeah, we're dating.”

 

“Wow, can't fault your taste there.” Grantaire nodded in approval, watching as Feuilly grinned and joined a very young-looking redhead at a nearby table. “Oh, he's adorable. This place has more potential than a singles' bar.”

 

“And fewer assholes.” Bahorel nodded. “Except Feuilly. But he's my asshole. And you, obviously.”

 

“Obviously,” Grantaire agreed, laughing. “So give me the scoop on cutie pie over there with your asshole.”

 

“That's Jehan,” Bahorel explained. “Almost eighteen. Genderfluid, uses they/them pronouns. They'll kind of try not to make a fuss about it if someone gets it wrong, but it means a lot to them.”

 

“Okay,” Grantaire agreed. “Way too young for me. Next.”

 

“You're twenty-three.”

 

“And you said _almost_ eighteen,” Grantaire pointed out. “I don't do jail bait.”

 

Bahorel scoffed. “Why must you assume everything's going to lead to sex?”

 

Grantaire made a face. “Why assume it won't? I like sex. Are you slut-shaming me?” He couldn't help but tease, given the company.

 

“That is _not_ slut-shaming and you know it. Asshole.” Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Anyhow. Moving on.” He paused, looking contemplative. “You know, if you're going to make me your dating service, you could at least buy me a drink.”

 

“That's doable.” Grantaire nodded. “In the meantime...?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Bahorel waved a hand dismissively, but it didn't hide his smile. “Trio over there – Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, going around the table. All taken, collectively. But don't rule them out. I think you'd get along. They're all down to party, and you couldn't find nicer folks.”

 

“Collectively?” Grantaire asked.

 

Bahorel nodded. “I hear polyamory's a beautiful thing.”

 

“I tried it once,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “Don't think it was for me. Then again, it could have been because one of them ended up being a total sociopath.”

 

Bahorel winced dramatically. “Yeah, that would tend to complicate the situation. Anyhow. Combeferre's not here. Clinicals, I think. She's in med school – so's Joly, but they're on different rotations. Not your type anyhow.”

 

“What, because she's a she?” Grantaire joked. “Excuse you, but I don't discriminate based on gender. I'm equal-opportunity when it comes to hookups.”

 

Bahorel punched him lightly in the arm. “So am I, but that's not what I meant. She's awesome, but you and her...just cannot see it. Courfeyrac, though, maybe.” He pointed to a cheerful, curly-haired guy who was chatting with Enjolras. “You'll like him. I mean, I think it's actually impossible _not_ to like Courf. He's just one of those people. He, Combeferre, and Enjolras grew up together in La Rochelle, on the coast. They're super close.”

 

“La Rochelle?” Grantaire echoed. “That's a classy place. Sounds like they're also super rich.”

 

“Well, that too,” Bahorel admitted. “Try not to judge them for it, though. They do put their money where their words are when it comes to helping people.”

 

“I'm not judging; I'm in love.” Grantaire laughed. “Rich, blond guy. Just what I was going to ask Santa for.”

 

“Right, like you're on the nice list.”

 

“Eh, he's a judgmental bastard.” Grantaire grinned. “No, seriously, though, how available is this Enjolras?”

 

“Emotionally speaking, not very, until you're in his inner circle.” Bahorel blinked innocently, as if he weren't perfectly aware he had misinterpreted the question. “Want to talk about layers like an onion? That's your guy.”

 

Grantaire took the opportunity to return the punch to Bahorel's arm. “Not what I meant, genius. Boyfriend? Girlfriend? None of the above?”

 

“None that I'm aware of,” Bahorel said. He shook his head, but he was smiling. “I know Ferre's nuts for him in a way more than just besties, but if he's noticed, that's beyond me. Like I said, layers. I don't even know for sure how his preferences run. He hasn't ever said, other than that he doesn't consider himself heterosexual.”

 

“Well, that leaves an entire Kinsey scale wide open.” Grantaire grinned. “I can live with that.” He frowned curiously as a young Asian woman approached Enjolras. “Who's the girl?”

 

“Oh, that's Cosette. Enjolras' little sister.” Bahorel nodded. “Don't waste your time getting interested. Marius – he's not here yet, but he will be – he's been crushing on her since the dawn of time. I've got a pool going with Joly and Bossuet on when they'll finally get together.”

 

“Sister?” Grantaire's eyebrows rose. “Not to sound like an asshole, but which one of them's adopted?” If Enjolras had been raised in an Asian household, that put forth an entirely new aspect of cultural issues to consider in a potential relationship. Not that he had faith it would get that far, knowing his luck, but it was useful information nonetheless.

 

“Oh, don't worry, you always sound like an asshole,” Bahorel teased. “But both of them, actually. Their dad's great. He looks tough as fuck, but don't be fooled. Total marshmallow.”

 

“So, basically, like you.” Grantaire laughed.

 

“Eh, I'm not as nice.” Bahorel waved as Enjolras approached. “Hey, Chief.” He nodded toward Grantaire. “Look what the cat finally dragged in. This is the guy I was telling you about.”

 

“Oh, hello.” Enjolras smiled, extending a hand. “I'm Enjolras. It's always nice to see new faces here.”

 

When their hands met, Grantaire felt a sort of energy he couldn't describe. It was like an intense personal connection, and he couldn't be sure he wasn't imagining it, but he didn't want to let go. He smiled, feeling a bit lost as Enjolras pulled his hand away. “I, uh...sorry, little out of it tonight. I'm Grantaire. You can call me R if you want.”

 

Enjolras laughed. “Nice pun.”

 

“Thank you. I'm quite the fan of it myself.” Grantaire reached for the drink he didn't yet have, and sighed internally. “It's...nice meeting you. 'Rel's been trying to get me to check this out for months.”

 

“Well, I'm glad you did.” Enjolras nodded, checking his watch. “We should get started. Marius is late, but that's not new.” He wandered back toward the front of the room, consulting with Courfeyrac over something. Grantaire's stare followed him, and for once, it wasn't focused on the physical aspects.

 

“Well?” Bahorel prompted. “You look like a deer in the headlights; what gives?”

 

Grantaire blinked. “I'm going to marry him.”

 

Bahorel snorted. “You can't marry a man you just met.”

 

“Says you.” Grantaire reached for his wallet. He really needed a drink now, and he'd promised Bahorel one. “There was something there. Like when our hands met.”

 

Bahorel laughed. “You sound like Little Red. They're a poet. I expect this from them.”

 

“I'm serious,” Grantaire insisted. “You know me; I'm more of a capital R Romantic. Death, destruction, love is pain sort of shit.”

 

“So are they.” Bahorel grinned. “Don't let the innocent exterior fool you; that kid is dark as hell. In a good way. Skulls as casual decoration kind of thing. Maybe there is something there for you two.”

 

“Again – jail bait.” Grantaire frowned. “It's all fine and good for us to hang, but let an actual relationship form, you'll see. Even if there isn't sex, try convincing their parents.”

 

“Disowned,” Bahorel said quietly. “Their parents are super-conservative assholes. They've been staying with Enjolras' family. Cosette has her father's gift for finding lost souls.”

 

“And Enjolras?” Grantaire asked.

 

“He's more about saving them when they're brought to his attention.”

 

“I'm pretty lost.” Grantaire pushed back from the table, standing to head to the bar. “Think he's interested in saving me?”

 

Bahorel joined him. “Keep dreaming. Something tells me he's a 'future of France before your pants' kind of guy.”

 

“Oh, that's cute. Did you make that up yourself?” Grantaire rolled his eyes as Bahorel trailed him to the bar. “Do yourself a favor and don't give up your day job just yet.”

 

Bahorel shoved him playfully. “Remind me why I put up with you again.”

 

“Because I'm buying you a drink.”

 

“Oh.” Bahorel nodded. “Excellent reason, that. Carry on.”

 

Grantaire shook his head, stepping up to the bar. It seemed cheesy to even think about it this early on, but he felt like he was in the right place, and he wondered why he'd put off coming for so long. Maybe it was just finding an outlet for his loneliness, or maybe it was that indescribable something he'd felt when meeting Enjolras. He didn't know. He also didn't care. Time wasn't something he had a lot of, most likely, so he saw no reason not to start making the most of what was available to him. If hanging with a bunch of university students who wanted to change the world was included in that, why not?

 

* * *

 

Combeferre was just getting home at the same time Enjolras was, and he grinned seeing her. “Hey. How was your rotation?”

 

She grinned cheerfully. “It was amazing, actually. Dr. Archambault had an emergency, so they floated me to obstetrics. I helped deliver twins!”

 

“That's great!” They were still standing in the hallway outside their apartment, and so Enjolras fumbled for his keys, unlocking the door.

 

“How was the meeting?” Combeferre asked, setting her backpack by the door.

 

“Nothing so exciting as delivering twins.” Enjolras smiled. “We got some decent work done, though. I think we'll be trying to organize a coat drive in Saint-Michel later this month. Oh, and one of Bahorel's friends came.”

 

“Oh, yes, he'd mentioned talking to someone.” Combeferre nodded as she took off her lab coat, hanging it up. “How did they like it?”

 

“He seemed to enjoy it well enough, I guess.” To be honest, Enjolras hadn't been paying as much attention as he could have been. He probably should have, but he relied on Combeferre for a lot of social cues. “It was interesting. You know I'm not much for those 'instant connection' stories.”

 

Combeferre perked up instantly, her full attention on him. “No, you're not. But...?”

 

“It was weird. I can't describe it, but when I shook his hand, there was this sort of...I don't know, deja vu? I can't really say. Like...” Enjolras shook his head, frustrated at his inability to put words to the feeling. It had been almost electric when their hands had touched, and Grantaire seemed disoriented by it too, unless Enjolras had been reading too much into the reaction. Which was possible, but it certainly wasn't his way.

 

“Well, is he attractive?” Combeferre asked. “Might that have something to do with it?”

 

Enjolras shrugged. “Not conventionally so. I mean, he's hardly repulsive, but I think it's trite to judge a person on those qualities anyway.”

 

“Well, of course it is,” Combeferre agreed, “but a certain level of attraction can influence a situation. You have no idea just how much you get away with because you're gorgeous, Enj.”

 

He blinked at her. They'd had this conversation before, but she seemed to be mentioning his physical qualities more often recently. Or maybe he'd just been noticing it more. “I can't help that society is vain.”

 

“No, of course not.” Combeferre laughed, heading to the kitchen. “Don't lose sleep over it. So, what about this guy?”

 

“His name's Grantaire.” Enjolras followed her, grabbing tea and sugar from the cabinet out of habit as she put the kettle on.

 

“And you had a moment.”

 

“I suppose,” Enjolras allowed. That was a good way to put it. “We had a moment.”

 

“And then?” Combeferre asked.

 

“The moment was gone?” Enjolras spread his hands helplessly. “I don't know, Ferre. He seems all right. He does like to play devil's advocate, I noticed. Enthusiastically so. I can't tell if he was trying to strengthen my arguments or jerk my chain, to be honest. But Bahorel likes him, and Feuilly took to him readily. He's a great judge of character.”

 

Combeferre laughed. “Enjolras, you think everything Feuilly does is perfect.”

 

Enjolras frowned. “Well, no one's perfect. I just think he's a great example of not letting one's circumstances limit them. He's...just...really great, okay?”

 

“I'm not disagreeing.” She smiled, rubbing his arm affectionately. “It's endearing. And, you're right, Feuilly is pretty great. So...if he likes the new guy, it must be okay?”

 

“I guess.” Enjolras sighed, retrieving two mugs and putting the tea bags in them while the water boiled.

 

Combeferre hugged him from behind. “Don't pout. It's not a good look for you. I'm just teasing. Think he'll come back next week? I'd like to meet him.”

 

“He said he would.” Enjolras turned to hug her as well. They'd been best friends since diapers, but lately it seemed like there was more starting to happen, a different sort of connection than he had with Courfeyrac. And he didn't know what to make of it, exactly, because the idea of a relationship with her was hardly off-putting, but at the same time, he didn't want to damage what they already had. Since Courfeyrac had moved out of the apartment because Marius needed a roommate, they'd had more time alone together. That alone might have been influencing him. As much as Enjolras loved social change, when it came to his private life, change didn't always come easy. Which, when he really thought about it, was a perfect metaphor for how it took time to change the world. People in general resisted change, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth fighting for. He pressed a friendly kiss against her head. They'd always been affectionate like that with each other, though he seemed to be reminding himself of it more. “Don't read too much into this, all right?”

 

“Why would I?” Combeferre chuckled, pulling away as the tea kettle started to whistle. “I just find it interesting. You're not usually this...” She frowned, as if searching for the right words.

 

“Navel-gazing?” Enjolras suggested. He brought the mugs closer so she could pour the water. “Anyhow, it's not worth focusing on. Tell me about your day. Twins, huh?”

 

Her face lit up and she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, my God, it was amazing. I'm not going to lie; I cried.”

 

“Well, it is pretty amazing, new life coming into the world.” Enjolras leaned against the counter, letting the tea steep.

 

“Oh, definitely,” Combeferre said. “And Dr. Bellamy made me feel better about it, anyway. She said she always thought when you stop tearing up at a delivery, it's time to consider a new field. She's amazing.” She grinned. “It was a perfect textbook delivery, too. Everyone happy and healthy, which is perfect. Plus, I got to do a couple of ultrasounds on the high-risk ward....”

 

 

 

 


	4. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein there is backstory, stubbornness, and friends being there for each other. And also being assholes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the link with the faceclaims for this 'verse in the last chapter, but in case you didn't see them, it improves the mental image greatly if you imagine Zayn Malik as Feuilly and Jason Momoa as Bahorel. No particular warnings for this chapter, other than the fact that these boys swear a lot and unapologetically. 
> 
> Also, just FYI, I've opted not to insert random bits of French into dialogue as a style choice, as I imagine this to be the English translation and all of these conversations are "actually" in French. I know all authors do it their own way, but if they switch languages for whatever reason, it'll be made clear in the text.

* * *

 

Lazy weekends at home were the best kind, and the only kind Bahorel wanted when it was gloomy and cold outside. This one was made infinitely better by the presence of Feuilly, who was currently draped face-down on top of him. They'd been dating for a few months, and Bahorel was honestly surprised it hadn't blown up in his face yet. Most of his relationships that started out smoothly seemed to implode once the three-month mark approached. Angie, his ex-fiancee, was an exception – they were still on friendly terms. Then, things hadn't exactly started smoothly with Angie, given that they'd met as a result of a traffic accident. Feuilly had simply come into the student union one day, caught Bahorel's eye, and things were going entirely too well. It made him suspicious. But, then, perhaps he was due for a streak of good fortune. And so, this lazy afternoon, watching movies and keeping each other warm on the couch.

 

Bahorel grinned and snorted, nudging the side of Feuilly's head with his arm as he scrutinized the image on his phone's screen. “Move your big head. I'm trying to get a selfie here.”

 

Feuilly snorted and turned his head so that he was in the picture. “There you go.”

 

Bahorel took the picture, grinning, then stuffed the phone back in his pocket and smacked Feuilly lightly. “I said selfie, not 'picture that includes swarthy, ridiculously attractive dude.'”

 

Feuilly chuckled. “Can't help my good genes.”

 

“Charming, ridiculously attractive orphan...” Bahorel frowned, staring into Feuilly's eyes – not that it was hard, given their proximity. “Are you Batman?”

 

“Yes,” Feuilly answered, nodding seriously. “I remain poor to throw people off the trail. It's not easy, but it's for the greater good.”

 

Bahorel curled his fingers in Feuilly's dark hair, pulling Feuilly's head to his chest. “I think I'll keep you around. You make for good arm candy.”

 

Feuilly snorted, relaxing against him. “I think I'll stay. Your apartment's warmer than mine.”

 

“Well, then.” Bahorel nodded, smiling. “My bed's even warmer. And roomier. Not that I _mind_ you decorating me, not at all, but....”

 

“Hmm.” Feuilly frowned thoughtfully, as if considering it, then languidly rolled off Bahorel and got to his feet. “Are you coming, then, or do I get all the blankets to myself?”

 

“Yeah, that's not gonna happen.” Bahorel rose, heading for the bedroom. “Not for your lack of trying. You are the _worst_ blanket hog.”

 

Feuilly shrugged. “I like to be warm.”

 

Bahorel shoved him playfully, onto the bed. “You'd think snuggling up to _the other human in the bed_ would help with that, but no. You just grab the blanket and roll over again. And again. I wake up freezing with a Feuilly burrito next to me.”

 

Feuilly reached up, pulling Bahorel down next to him. “I refuse to be held responsible for my actions while asleep.”

 

“Now where is an attitude like that going to get you?” Bahorel teased. He shifted on the bed so that they were both approximately in the middle of it, pulling the comforter over them.

 

“Warm,” Feuilly answered, grinning smugly.

 

Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Fucking smartass.” He wriggled to get to his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. He was about to drop it onto the floor, to avoid further distractions, but checked the text message he'd just received to make sure it wasn't important.

 

It was Grantaire. _Hey, you busy?_

 

Bahorel wasn't sure how to answer. Technically, he was, but Grantaire wasn't the sort to be bothered with idle text chatter. A question like that was usually the precursor to either an invitation or a request. He tapped out his response quickly, smiling as Feuilly cuddled up to him. _Getting cozy with this charming asshole._ He attached the picture of the two of them he'd taken earlier, aware that he was probably just bragging at that point. _Why?_

 

Grantaire sent back a smiley emotion, then a reply. _Ah, nothing, was going to con you into giving me a ride, but carry on. I'll manage!_

 

Bahorel frowned. Grantaire didn't directly ask for help often. He didn't drive, but he usually insisted on making do with public transit or walking. Grantaire was known to accept a ride from a friend if they were already together, perhaps, but for him to ask usually meant he was too drunk to get himself home or in some kind of bind. _Where are you?_

 

_It's fine. I can get a cab, or run out tomorrow. Just a run to the store._

 

_Too late for takebacks!_ Bahorel added a grinning emoticon, sent the message, and glanced over at Feuilly. “As warm and comfortable as this is, will you manage without me for a few? A buddy of mine – you know, Grantaire, you met him at the meeting a couple weeks ago? He needs a favor.”

 

Feuilly chuckled, shaking his head. “Of course. I could always come with you, unless this is a private kind of thing.”

 

“Um, can't see that it would be.” Bahorel smiled. He'd been sure Feuilly would understand. “I just figured you'd rather stay warm here over the damp and cold out there.”

 

“Eh, if you figure it's important enough to drag yourself out, given the options, I might as well keep you company on the way.” Feuilly sat up. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yeah, he just needs a ride to the store,” Bahorel answered. “But he's not the kind to normally ask, so I figure it's important.”

 

Feuilly smiled. “See, that's what I like about you. You're an asshole, but you're the sort of asshole your friends can count on.”

 

“What, and you aren't?” Bahorel asked, reaching for his shoes. “You're, like, a super dependable asshole.”

 

“I try.” Feuilly shrugged. “But, seriously. Growing up in the system, you learn quick who you can trust and who you can't. Someone you know has your back – that's worth its weight in gold.”

 

Feuilly didn't often casually discuss his time in foster care; it usually only came up at meetings, as it related to social issues. Bahorel had a lot of questions, but always tread carefully, figuring Feuilly would open up about his past in due time. But what _had_ Feuilly seen and experienced? Bahorel had been raised by a single mother, but he'd always known how lucky he was to have her. He couldn't imagine being passed off from one family to another and being as resilient about the whole thing as Feuilly appeared to have been. Bahorel decided to chance a question. “Feel free to tell me if I'm stepping out of bounds here, but how old were you when you...went into care?” The last part seemed lame, especially with how casually he'd been joking about Feuilly being an orphan earlier. But that was different. Feuilly joked about that himself. This was actually thinking about it, remembering that Feuilly had been an actual child who'd lost his parents.

 

“It was a couple weeks after my fifth birthday.” Feuilly's expression was bittersweet. “I sort of vaguely remember my birthday party. There were a lot of balloons. It was a happy thing. I went to school, and I remember asking my teacher how to keep balloons forever – of all the goofy things your brain latches onto. And then we came in from the playground, and my teacher pulled me aside, and she was crying, and....” He shrugged and pulled on his jacket, clearly not ready at the moment to take it further. “Everything changed. My home, my life...my name.” He nodded toward the door. “So shall we?”

 

“We shall..” Bahorel took Feuilly by the arm, hoping to making him smile, but also wanting to touch him in a way that didn't seem pitying or sappy. “Your name? Again, feel free to tell me to stay in my lane, but I did that background check on you with the one I _knew_ , so....”

 

The tease had its intended effect; Feuilly laughed. “Yeah – my name, actually. My father was Pakistani and my mother was French. You know we haven't exactly kicked racism to the curb here, much as we'd like to. I was already a scrawny kid with a dark complexion, so...they gave me my mother's maiden name, a 'proper' French first name.”

 

Bahorel scowled as they walked to the car, still arm in arm. “That's bullshit!”

 

Feuilly shrugged. “Yeah, it kind of is, but...at the same time, the social workers really were trying to help. They knew how the system worked, and people would foster or adopt a kid named 'Sebastien Feuilly' a lot sooner than one named 'Taariq Sulemani.' And it was true. It got me out of the group home and into my first placement in a couple months. I roomed with a kid who'd been there nearly a year. He was a little older than me, and the older you get, the lower your odds.”

 

“Which sucks.” Bahorel started the car, frowning. “You know, if you did want to change your name – back to the one you had, or anything else – all of our friends would totally support you. And I would too. I mean, of course.”

 

Feuilly's smile was always beautiful, but when he was touched by something, it was even more so. He squeezed Bahorel's arm, as both Bahorel's hands were on the steering wheel. “Thank you. That means a lot. I'd actually considered it, once upon a time. But this is the name I've lived by, and I rather like it. And Feuilly _was_ my mother's maiden name, so it's not without meaning.”

 

“Well, hey, whatever works for you.” Bahorel grinned at him. “If you ever change your mind, just let us know. Half of the gang doesn't go by what's typed on their official papers anyway. I mean, I don't think even _Bossuet_ knows how his name is supposed to be spelled.” Literally every formal document Bossuet had access to – his birth certificate, creche registration, even his parents' marriage license – had a different spelling of Lesgle, L'aigle, Lesgles, or _whatever his name actually was_. (Spellings of his first name tended to vary between Matthieu, Mathieu, and, inexplicably, Jean.) He was just Bossuet to them, and in true fashion with his personality, he signed his name with whatever variation he felt like at the moment.

 

Feuilly laughed. “That's a mystery for the ages, isn't it?”

 

Bahorel nodded. “Never a lawyer – a good motto anyway, but especially when your very existence appears to confuse the court.”

 

“And what about yours?” Feuilly asked. “Is 'Remy' just a clever ruse to keep us from realizing you actually passed the bar?”

 

Bahorel wrinkled his nose at him. “Oh, hell, no. Never. Remy is Remy and I am what I am. Though my mom came _this close_ to calling me Raphael, apparently – until the nurse told her, 'Any child you name after an angel will have a streak of the devil in them.'”

 

Feuilly snorted as they pulled up outside Grantaire's building. “A lot of good that did your mother.”

 

“I know, right?” Bahorel laughed. “Heaven doesn't want me and hell's afraid I'll take over.” He sent a text to let Grantaire know they were outside, and he had company. “Speaking of names, I was thinking of one for us. Like, our names don't smush together well, the way people do that now for a 'couple' name.”

 

Feuilly rolled his eyes as they started up the stairs. “We do not _need_ a couple name.”

 

“I was thinking 'Team Fuck Shit Up,” Bahorel offered. “Except, that sounded more like an excellent fight team name, so...I'm thinking, it's a good thing you came along, because you and R need to get to know each other better. The three of us, we'd be unstoppable.”

 

At least they would be when all of them were in prime physical condition – which Grantaire was most definitely _not_. His apartment was always a little drafty, but it was downright chilly when Grantaire let them in, and Bahorel frowned. “Did that slumlord who runs this place forget to fix the heat again?”

 

“Not yet.” Grantaire coughed, and he didn't entirely hide the wince when he did. “It only broke again today. Just in time for this latest cold snap.”

 

“Holy shit.” The more Bahorel assessed the situation, the more he was glad he'd come. He was wondering if he should take Grantaire to a hospital instead of a store. “That cough does not sound pretty.”

 

“Doesn't feel pretty either.” Grantaire rubbed his chest. “I was just going to get some cough drops so maybe I could sleep. You really didn't have to come all the way here.”

 

“Well, I'm here, so deal.” Bahorel stepped closer, examining Grantaire as he stepped into the light. “Your lips are bluish – and it's cold, but it's not _that_ fucking cold. Unless you wanna confess to hitting your scene phase a little late, we're going to the doctor.”

 

“It's just a cough,” Grantaire insisted. “You know the winter colds kick my ass; they always have.”

 

“Well, _I'm_ about to kick your ass if you don't come peacefully.” Bahorel straightened to his full height. Though he knew exactly how well Grantaire could fight, he was not above using his taller, more muscular frame for attempted intimidation. He took Grantaire's hand, feeling for his pulse. “I'm not Joly or Ferre by any means, but that feels too fast, and you look like death warmed over so we're going. Feuilly will help if you don't come peacefully.”

 

Feuilly nodded. “Normally I wouldn't participate in kidnappings of people I've only met recently, but...'Rel's right. You don't sound or look good.”

 

“Feuilly's too nice. You _look like shit_. Taire.” Before Grantaire could make the usual joke about the nickname, Bahorel added, “Yes. I _am_ telling you to shut up. No excuses – there are cough drops somewhere in the emergency department, I'm sure.”

 

Grantaire sighed. “It's probably nothing, but...fine. I was just _there_.”

 

“When?” Bahorel asked.

 

“Before that meeting I went to, got out that afternoon.”

 

“Oh, my God.” Bahorel shepherded his friend along, toward the car, Feuilly flanking Grantaire's other side. “You were in the hospital and you forgot to mention it?”

 

Grantaire shrugged, leaning heavily on Bahorel as they went down the stairs. “I didn't think anyone need to worry, really.”

 

Grantaire seemed to have lost his fight, and that worried Bahorel. Usually he'd have tossed back a half-hearted insult at the very least. Bahorel wrapped his arm around Grantaire to support him, and not just physically. “Um, newsflash. That's what friends _do_. They worry about each other.”

 

“Fine.” Grantaire did smile, a little bit. “Just remember, if either one of you get sick, I don't want to hear it. Not one word. You had your chance--” A coughing fit intervened, and Feuilly rubbed Grantaire's back.

 

“Yeah, we did.” Bahorel shrugged. “And we're here. So, like I said, deal. And, hey, maybe that nurse that looks like Meryl Streep will be working. I think she has a soft spot for you.”

 

“Her name's Aimee.” Grantaire smiled. “She _is_ really nice.”

 

“Yeah, motherly sort.” Bahorel nodded. “Me, I always had the best luck with Madeleine.”

 

Feuilly raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned that you two visit the local hospital enough to know the nurses by name?”

 

Bahorel snorted and gave him a grin. “You probably should've run when you had your chance.”

 

 

 

 


	5. The Beating of Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Due to a scheduling conflict, "Shit None of These Guys Wants to Deal With" has been rescheduled for Sunday. Please plan accordingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's fun experimenting with roles and meetings in this 'verse...and many of the choices are very deliberate. :) As much as I love Joly and Bossuet being R's canon bffs (I am obsessed with that trio), I decided to try a few different things here for Reasons. That will become apparent later. Thanks for the kudos and the hits...glad to know people are enjoying it, because I have so much writing it and plotting with Jace! - Audrey Lynne

* * *

 

Sunday morning clinical rotations were great, as far as Combeferre was concerned. Traffic was light on the way in, and there was nearly always something interesting on the medical-surgical unit after someone had gotten carried away Saturday night. Falling off ladders/rooftops/anything higher than oneself while drunk seemed to be a surprisingly common affliction among university students. Especially students who were both old enough and educated enough to know far better. Then again, Combeferre had not gone into medicine to reaffirm her faith in humanity. Of that, she actually had plenty, and from the first time she could recall stepping into the pediatrician's office as a child, she knew this was the field for her. There had been zero doubts, though philosophy occasionally attempted to sway her. She'd settled for minoring in that.

 

Sunday rotations also had the bonus of giving Combeferre a perfectly legitimate excuse _not_ to go to Mass with her brother Julien. All seven of the Combeferre siblings had been raised Catholic, as had their parents and generations before them back to the beginning of the line. But some were more passionate than others, and she didn't share Julien's devotion. He was kind enough, not judging when she declined, at least not out loud, but she knew her agnostic nature bothered him. She couldn't deny that there had to be some force behind the grand design of the universe, that too much fit together too perfectly to be entirely accidental. But whatever that source was, for her, it wasn't found in organized religion. She would deny no one the comfort they found in it, unless they were using faith as a shield for their own bad behavior. But it simply wasn't for her.

 

Dr. Archambault nearly always ran a few minutes late to meeting his Sunday rotation students, coming directly from the chapel. Some students fussed, insisting his need for religion shouldn't interfere with _their_ schedules, but Combeferre didn't mind. It gave her a few extra minutes to chat with her classmates over coffee. As they all progressed further in their training, each rotation getting more intense with smaller groups, they saw less of each other, so it was good to catch up.

 

“This cardiology rotation is kicking my ass,” Georges Allard admitted, shaking his head. “The rhythm strips give me the most trouble. Makes me wonder if I wouldn't be better off running a used bookstore.”

 

“Hmm, I'd love to run a used bookstore,” Combeferre murmured. “Then again, I'd love to simply have the time to spend hours in one.”

 

“I might, if things don't ease up by the end of the semester,” Georges joked. He held his cup of coffee out toward the group in a mock salute, of sorts. “We may not all survive here.”

 

“But there are things that never die,” Combeferre murmured, not knowing why or how the thought popped into her head instantly. It must have been a quote she read, or a song lyric. But a feeling washed over her, too many unidentifiable emotions all at once, and she stared down into her coffee as if it might provide answers.

 

Georges was in the middle of a joke about the death of his GPA when he broke off, leaning toward Combeferre, putting a hand on her arm. “Tessa? You okay?”

 

The use of her first name – which felt odd, somehow, and not just because _Les Amis_ rarely used them – startled her back to reality. “Ah – yes, fine. Just thinking.”

 

“Must've been one hell of a thought.” Georges didn't push, but he still looked concerned.

 

“Trying to remember where I heard that before,” Combeferre explained. A name – Lucien – flitted across her mind, and it fit. Surely that had to be the source, though whether that was the first or last name, she had no idea. She made a mental note to Google it later, and tried to reorient herself as Dr. Archambault hurried over to meet them.

 

* * *

 

 

In the mornings, before visiting hours, the cardiology wing's waiting room was usually empty, and it was a good place to review a patient's chart. Close to the unit, with an excellent view down the hall for any unexpected bursts of activity, and surprisingly comfortable chairs. After getting her patient assignment, Combeferre headed to the waiting room as usual, but paused at the unexpected company. Bahorel and Feuilly, who had fallen asleep leaning against each other. She was intrigued, and a little worried – though she didn't entirely put it past Bahorel to figure out her schedule somehow and camp out to surprise her. Feuilly, however, would surely have been the voice of reason, and so she figured they were here for a reason. She hesitated to wake them, but she didn't have long before she had to assess her patient and then join Dr. Archambault for rounds. “'Rel?” She shook his shoulder gently.

 

Bahorel made a quiet noise of protest, and then blinked, rubbing at his eyes and stretching his neck. As comfortable as the chairs could be, sleeping in them was undoubtedly a different story. “Hmm – oh, hey, Ferre. What's up?”

 

“I was about to ask you that.” She frowned, tucking the chart she carried under one arm. “I wouldn't have been shocked to find you in the emergency department, but this is a little unusual.”

 

Bahorel nodded. “We were here with Taire. He was at the meeting a couple weeks ago – oh, that's right, you were here. Anyhow, he's a buddy of mine, and he looked like shit last night, blue lips and everything. So we dragged him in and they sent him up here after they saw him downstairs.” He perked up a little, looking hopeful. “I know, privacy laws and all that jazz, but any chance you could find out how he's doing?”

 

“I might be able to try, in a bit,” Combeferre replied, “but visiting hours start in about twenty minutes.” She smiled. “I'm sure he wouldn't mind the company, especially if he's the kind of friend you'd stay here all night for.”

 

“Oh, right.” Bahorel laughed softly. “Probably should've thought of that. Didn't realize we'd slept so late.” He grinned. “Twenty minutes isn't so bad, especially if this loser here doesn't wake up.”

 

Feuilly stirred, frowning at Bahorel. “You're the loser, loser.” Apparently he'd woken in time to catch the end of that.

 

Combeferre smiled. “Well, good luck. Hopefully I'll catch you later; we usually have some downtime after the morning rounds.”

 

“Yeah, same to you,” Bahorel said. Feuilly smiled and waved at Combeferre as she retreated to a corner of the waiting room to read up on the patient she was about to see.

 

Luca Duchene, twenty-three. Young for this unit, which was predominately populated with middle aged and older people recovering from heart attacks. But sometimes they got cases like this, patients facing cardiac issues of an entirely different sort. Primary diagnosis – pneumonia, but he'd been assigned to Cardiology instead of the medical-surgical floor due to an underlying congenital heart defect. The medical part of her brain got a little excited as she read on; she'd never seen a patient this age with that particular condition. It was usually corrected in childhood – in fact, it usually had to be, or the patient wouldn't survive. Surgical interventions over the past couple of decades had let a lot of children go on to lead normal lives. But, as she read on, this patient had been treated with an older procedure that left a lot of scar tissue. Heart failure as a result wasn't uncommon, and he was entering that phase. Notes from his last admission indicated the doctors were running out of options. Combeferre frowned. It was sad, someone only a few months younger than herself, not knowing if he'd see his next birthday. He didn't seem to be dying _today_ , though, and so Combeferre perked herself up and headed in to see him. It would be a nice change from crotchety old men who couldn't get over either her gender or her age.

 

The young man smiled as Combeferre entered the room. “Wow, more cute nurses?”

 

“I'm a medical student, actually,” Combeferre replied dryly. “And please don't harass the nurses.”

 

He held up his hands innocently. “Oh, of course not. Trust me, I try to avoid pissing off the ladies who wield the needles. Or guys. I'm not picky.”

 

Combeferre smiled. “I'm glad to see you have some sense of self-preservation.” She didn't usually get the chance to be so candid with a patient, and it was kind of nice. She loved when they had a sense of humor. “I'm Tessa.”

 

“Grantaire.” He laughed, extending a hand. “Ignore what it says on the chart – no one's called me that in years. Odd nickname, I know, but it's a long story.”

 

Combeferre shook his hand. “I'm happy to call you whatever you like.” The name clicked suddenly, and she smiled. “Oh, wait, you're Bahorel's friend.”

 

He lit up at the name. “Bahorel? You know him?”

 

Combeferre chuckled. It was standard policy for students to introduce themselves with their first names, but of course that wouldn't have been a name he would have ever heard Bahorel use. “Well, as you know, most of us go by our last names or nicknames.” In the early days of _Les Amis_ , when they'd been a little younger and a lot wilder, it had been a defense of sorts, to keep their full names private, and now it was a comfortable habit – their identities within their circle of closest friends. “I'm Combeferre.”

 

“Oh!” His eyes widened, and he coughed a little, but covered it with a smile. “I've heard a lot about you. All good, I swear.”

 

“Same.” She checked the monitors, jotting down numbers as they talked.

 

He laughed. “Yeah, Bahorel's a great guy. Though I'll lie if you tell him I said so.”

 

“I understand,” Combeferre assured him. “He's waiting with Feuilly to see you, actually.”

 

“Shit, they stayed all night?” Grantaire asked, looking genuinely surprised. “Damn.”

 

“He's worried about you, and understandably so.” She probably should have made the connection earlier, with the blue lips – fortunately pink now, if pale – Bahorel had mentioned and the age, but who would have guessed? “You were pretty sick last night.” He still was, but she knew he was probably fully aware of that, and she hated to focus on gloom and doom.

 

“Yeah, I figured.” He sighed. “I just never expect people to be hanging around on my account. Spent a lot of my life in and out of hospitals, and I've kind of gotten used to doing it solo.”

 

This was cardiology, not psychiatry, and so she declined to ask about his family's presence – or lack thereof – during prior hospitalizations. Sometimes friends _were_ one's family, as she knew well. “Well, visitation starts in a few minutes. They're pretty anxious to see you, if you're up to it.”

 

Grantaire's smile was genuine and grateful. “Yeah...that sounds really nice, actually.”

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire had been surprised but glad to meet Combeferre, and he half regretted not asking her for more details on her blond friend, Enjolras. He'd have to see what he could find out when he saw her again later. His train of thought had been derailed by the knowledge that Bahorel and Feuilly had stayed at the hospital after he was admitted, waited all night so they could find out how he was doing. That was just the quality sort of people they were, but Grantaire still found it extremely touching. Especially considering his parents could never be bothered to do the same. As he'd gotten older, it hadn't mattered, and he'd become accustomed to being in the hospital alone. But when he was little and saw other kids whose parents wouldn't leave their sides, it hurt. Now he'd probably just tell them to fuck off if they showed up, because he'd learned who mattered in his life. And, given that he probably didn't have a lot of life left, he had no intention of wasting his time on people who never gave a shit about him.

 

He'd been born with it, a condition in which the main vessels of his heart were twisted or reversed or whatever the hell it was; he never could remember. Considering he'd turned blue – not just his lips, but everywhere – within minutes of his birth, surgery had been immediately necessary. Unfortunately for his parents, he'd survived. They played their part in public, but they'd never been shy in private about hiding the fact that they'd not been keen on having a child in the first place, much less a sickly one. There had been multiple surgeries when he was young, little patches and fixes until he was strong enough to withstand a more complex procedure. Grantaire had been warned that the scar tissue left behind would inevitably create problems someday, and here he was. Possibly a few years sooner due to his excessive alcohol intake, but it was going to happen anyway. His only real hope was a transplant, and he'd been told many times if he didn't agree to quit drinking, there was no chance he would be approved. And for a long time, he hadn't cared.

 

Except now he was starting to and he had no idea why.

 

Things hadn't changed that much. If he were more dramatic, Grantaire might have said that meeting Bahorel's friends had completely opened his eyes and introduced new possibilities. But that wasn't exactly true. They seemed like decent people, to be sure, and he wanted to get to know some of them better. Especially Enjolras. Still, that wasn't enough to give him a sudden, driving will to live. It was a series of little changes. Consistent friendship. The painting he'd sold last week. Tiny things that started to make him wonder if, just maybe, there was a point to this mess he called life.

 

Just in time for it to be over. Exactly his luck.

 

It was enough to make anyone depressed, really, though in his case he was generally depressed enough that the effect was negligible. He'd seen other heart patients his age, young and full of life. Some of the most deserving had died anyway. Some of the assholes had gotten the treatment they needed and lived. Disease didn't discriminate, and recovery seemed to favor no one in particular. As far as Grantaire was concerned, miracles were in the eye of the beholder and he hadn't seen many – so he wasn't inclined to invest a lot of hope in waiting for his.

 

Bahorel bounded into the room, grinning widely, Feuilly steps behind him. “Hey! You look a hell of a lot better. I mean, you still look like shit, but it's better shit.”

 

Grantaire laughed. “Thanks. You do such wonders for my self-esteem.”

 

Bahorel perched on the side of the bed after dropping the protective side rail with an ease that had to be practiced, and Grantaire wondered where he'd learned to do it without looking. Even most of the medical staff looked around for the latch. “Any time, man.” He nodded for Feuilly to have a seat in the chair beside the bed. “No, but seriously. You do look better. Your lips were _blue_. It was kind of freaky, to be honest.”

 

Grantaire shrugged, waving at Feuilly in greeting. “It's just not my color, I guess.”

 

Bahorel met Grantaire's eyes, uncharacteristically serious. “I'm being real. I heard what they said, pnuemonia, but this wing has a lot fancier junk than I'm used to seeing. And Cardiac Care Unit? I know fuck-all about medicine, but I'm not thinking this is the kind of place they stick people when they're short of beds elsewhere.”

 

Bahorel's obvious – and genuine – concern made Grantaire squirm a little. He wasn't _used_ to it. He'd dodged issues of his health for a long time because he didn't want to look like a drama queen. Didn't want to look like he was fishing for attention. Didn't want fake sympathy from people who didn't really care. But Bahorel did, and Grantaire sighed. It was time to be honest. As much as he hated to hurt his friend, it would hurt more to keep up the ruse. “I have a heart condition. Kind of leaves me open to other stuff. I...just didn't want to admit how bad it was last night, not even to myself.”

 

Bahorel's concern deepened, and Feuilly put one hand on Bahorel's arm. But he too looked worried, and not just in the pretend-empathy way Grantaire was used to seeing. They barely knew each other yet. The concept that people would care because they were just good people, it had been too lofty for the kind of people Grantaire had grown up around. And now he was seeing it and he had no idea how to cope with that.

 

Grantaire fussed with the oxygen tubing for a minute to buy time to process his thoughts. “This now is just pneumonia, for real. At least as far as I know.”

 

“But?” Bahorel prompted gently, putting one hand close to Grantaire but leaving the option open for him to take it.

 

Grantaire squeezed Bahorel's hand softly, taking strength from the touch. “But...my heart's failing. Officially now. It was only a matter of time, really.”

 

Bahorel drew in a sharp breath, but his grip on Grantaire's hand didn't waver. “We'll fight it. This is Paris. There are doctors, hospitals...I mean, shit. We'll figure out something.”

 

“Not much to be done.” Grantaire shook his head sadly. “I don't want to make this out to be like I'm some poor, dying kid, but – there honestly aren't a lot of options, unless I get a transplant. Wasn't sick enough to be on the list when I was younger. Don't exactly qualify for it now.”

 

Feuilly frowned. “That's bullshit. You deserve as much of a chance as anyone else.”

 

Grantaire smiled. “Thanks, but if they're going to take the chance on some clean-cut graduate student versus a washed-up alcoholic artist, that's not morals, it's just math.”

 

“It doesn't matter what you do for a living.” Feuilly shook his head. “Okay, the addiction, that could be a problem, but...you have friends. We can help you.”

 

“Is he for real?” Grantaire asked Bahorel.

 

Bahorel laughed. “Too good for this world, isn't he?” He squeezed Grantaire's hand. “No, but, seriously. He's right about you having friends, and help. I know the odds aren't great for organs people can't hand over while they're alive, but we'll get you on that list.”

 

Grantaire blinked, fighting the tears that threatened to spring to his eyes. It had to be because he was sick. He didn't cry, not anymore. “Thanks. I...I'll think about it, okay?”

 

“That's all I can ask.” Bahorel leaned forward, pulling Grantaire into a hug. “You're not alone, you asshole.”

 

Grantaire melted into the embrace, hugging him tightly. “Thank you. Jerk.” He smiled shakily at Feuilly as he pulled out of the hug, trying to keep the tenuous hold he had over his emotions. “You sure about this? You barely know me.”

 

Feuilly scooted forward to pat Grantaire's arm. “Well, we'll have to change that. But I know enough. If 'Rel cares this much about you, that's all I need to know.”

 

Grantaire nodded. He had to say, he was starting to feel the same about Feuilly, and he didn't trust people easily. At all. “Then here's to better living, I guess.”

 

“Amen.” Bahorel grinned. He grabbed a pen and pad of paper from the nightstand and dropped them in Grantaire's lap. “And you'd better make a list, because if you have to go, we're going to make sure you have a damn good time before you do.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was a meeting scheduled that night, which was unusual for a Sunday, but Enjolras had wanted to review talking points for the petition _Les Amis_ planned to be circulating on the university campus over the next week. Bahorel and Feuilly arrived a little early, hoping to catch up with some of the others. Bahorel's head was still spinning. He'd known Grantaire had been sick, but he would never have guessed it had been that bad. Up until recently, Grantaire had been very active – dancing, fighting. But that was how it went, apparently. The surgeries that had patched his heart together worked fine, until they didn't.

 

Feuilly was a godsend. After Grantaire had finally shooed them away from the hospital to enjoy the day for themselves, they'd gone home, and Bahorel had sobbed shamelessly in Feuilly's arms for nearly twenty minutes. It hit him hard, knowing his best friend was dying and there was very little he could do to stop it. They'd help Grantaire to stop drinking, sure, and apparently the last hospitalization had gotten him through the really ugly part of withdrawal. But, even if they were a match, none of them could hand over a heart the way they could a kidney or part of a liver. Doctors weren't always right, but they weren't usually talking out of their asses, either, and their estimates capped out at about nine months. Nine months left to find a miracle.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Courfeyrac was quick to note any disturbance in the force, and he made a beeline for Bahorel and Feuilly as they settled in.

 

“Rough day,” Bahorel sighed. There was never any sense in even attempting to lie to Courfeyrac. He _knew_.

 

“Aw, that sucks.” Courfeyrac frowned. “Want to talk about it?”

 

Bahorel shook his head. “Nah, not right now. Maybe later.” He wanted to gather more details, sort things out in his head before he addressed it with everyone. Especially given that he wanted to bring Grantaire into the group as much as he was willing, and Bahorel knew the last thing Grantaire wanted was to be viewed as some kind of charity case, even unintentionally.

 

“Okay,” Courfeyrac agreed. “Want a hug?”

 

“Hell, yeah.” Bahorel laughed, accepting the hug from Courfeyrac; he'd have been a fool to pass that up. “I'll be fine.” He looked around the room to see who else had arrived as Courfeyrac continued to make the rounds, catching Joly's eye.

 

Joly took the hint immediately and came over, taking a seat at the table. “What's up?”

 

“How much do you know about a heart thing where the stuff's all flip-flopped?” Bahorel asked. He hadn't wanted Combeferre to feel like he was putting her on the spot for information given that Grantaire had been her patient. “Transportation, translocation, something like that?”

 

Joly frowned, leaning on his cane a little the way he always did when he thought. “Transposition?”

 

Bahorel snapped his fingers. “That's the one.”

 

“Transposition of the great vessels,” Joly mused. “That's a tough one. Depends a lot on if it's a d-type or an l-type. Different treatments. Much different mortality rate. Why?”

 

“I literally have no idea what any of that middle part meant,” Bahorel said. “A friend of mine, he's got it. Born with it. I guess he had a bunch of surgeries when he was a kid, turned blue when he was a baby?”

 

Joly nodded. “Probably a d-type, then.”

 

“And that's the good one or the bad one?” Bahorel asked.

 

“Well, neither one of them is good, exactly.” Joly sighed. “But the d-type is far more serious. What do you want to know, really? I assume if you're asking me and not Wikipedia, you've got some specific questions.”

 

“Already tried Wikipedia,” Bahorel admitted. “Wasn't much help.”

 

“So?” Joly asked, though patiently.

 

Bahorel wanted to ask so many questions. If the life expectancy could be extended. If that condition took any sort of priority on transplant lists over another. But, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he just wanted Joly to give him that miracle. “I guess...I don't know. Just looking for a little hope, I guess. I'm not good with problems I can't beat the shit out of. And going on a murder spree to get a heart donated, it's really not my style.”

 

Joly's expression softened from curious to sympathetic. “I'm sorry. If there is anything I can do – or any of us, really – let me know.”

 

“I will,” Bahorel promised. “Thanks, Joly.”

 

“You know,” Feuilly said slowly, a gleam in his eye, “if you happen to change your mind about that murder spree, I know a guy. We're not exactly friends, but he owes me a favor.”

 

Bahorel shook his head, leaning forward to kiss Feuilly's forehead. “You scare me sometimes. Don't ever change.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	6. The Cynic and the Poet

* * *

 

Grantaire was half-dozing when his phone buzzed, and he shifted to check it. Today had been quieter, since he had assured Bahorel and Feuilly there was no need to skip class on his account. As much as their company was appreciated, he wasn't dying that very moment. Bahorel had spent most of the day texting him anyhow, but Grantaire hardly minded. It gave him something to do, as he was one of the few people he knew who had managed to spend extended time in hospitals without developing an affection for daytime television. Most of it only served to further undermine his already suffering faith in humanity.

 

_Little Red wanted to come by and see you. That okay?_

 

Grantaire frowned, trying to place the name, then remembered. _Wait, that cute little non-binary kid from the meeting? What was their name again, Jean?_

 

_Yeah, they go by Jehan. :-D You mind if they drop in?_

 

_Not really...I just don't know why they'd want to._ Bahorel's friends seemed almost too good to be true, really. First Feuilly, but he was Bahorel's boyfriend, so that at least made some sense. Combeferre had been assigned to Grantaire's case, so her kindness could easily be purely professional. But now people he'd only spent a few minutes talking to wanted to visit him in the hospital? Then, Jehan  _was_ young. Maybe they were equally naïve. That had to be it.

 

Not an hour later, the kid had arrived. They smiled brightly. “Hi! I hope you don't mind my dropping in! I just thought you might like some company.”

 

Grantaire couldn't help a small smile in return. They were so enthusiastic. Adorable, as he remembered. Not quite eighteen, as he reminded himself. “No, it's really nice of you. Thanks. I guess I'm just a little confused why you'd want to spend your free time with someone you met for all of five minutes.”

 

Jehan blushed nearly as red as their hair. “I thought you were nice. And it's never fun being in the hospital alone.” They shifted a little nervously. “I'm glad you're awake. I didn't want to just waltz in here while you were asleep, and freak you out, waking to a stranger.”

 

“Nah, that'd have been fine, I've got plenty of experience waking up with strangers,” Grantaire replied dryly, then winced. It had taken him exactly thirty seconds to forget the very facts he of which he had just reminded himself. And he was actually sober, involuntary as it might have been. “Shit, I forgot you're underage. Forget I said anything.” He did try to avoid making lewd jokes around minors.

 

They giggled, and brought a hand up to cover their bright cheeks. “Same, actually.”

 

Grantaire wasn't sure if that was too much information for him or not. “I guess it is what it is, eh?” He hated that he was continuing to notice how cute they were. Very attractive, actually.

 

“I actually turned eighteen on Saturday,” Jehan offered casually. “So you don't have to walk on eggshells if you're worried about 'corrupting' me. And I'm already pretty corrupted, as far as that goes.”

 

That did ease Grantaire's mind somewhat. Jehan already seemed to be a more experienced soul than their age would have suggested, but if there were any unintentional route to legal trouble, Grantaire's luck would have had him finding it. He grinned. “Well, shit, happy birthday. This probably isn't the kind of celebrating you had in mind, though. Just a wild guess.”

 

“No worries.” Jehan seemed to relax a little, taking a seat near the bed. “I've had worse. And I love making new friends. Bahorel really cares about you.”

 

“Yeah, he's the best.” Grantaire nodded. “He seems pretty fond of you too. I'm not used to having such quality people around.”

 

“I understand,” Jehan said quietly. “It sucks, doesn't it?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed. He had absolutely no time for privileged teenagers trying to prove their overblown problems were just so hard, but he remembered hearing Jehan's story from Bahorel. Rejected for both their gender and sexuality, disowned by their parents. Even without that background, the look in Jehan's eyes said they knew genuine sadness. “Forgive me if I'm overstepping my bounds, but your parents are shitheads to throw you away over something like that.”

 

Jehan laughed softly, a small smile staying on their lips. “You should hear how Monsieur  Fauchelevent talks about them. You think Enjolras has a strong voice, you should see his father. It's pretty funny sometimes.”

 

Grantaire perked up at the mention of Enjolras. He hadn't seen the man since that night, but the memory of watching him speak lingered. “Bahorel said the guy's pretty tough. And, coming from Bahorel, that's one hell of a compliment.”

 

Jehan grinned. “He does look it, but he's a huge teddy bear. Just a really kind man. I was a lot younger the first time I ran away from home, and he let me in and didn't ask too many questions. Even let me cuddle up to him when I woke up crying in the middle of the night.”

 

That did sound nice. Grantaire had known a sweet older woman in the neighborhood whose house he'd sometimes escaped to as a child, but once she had passed, he was pretty much on his own when things got rough. “Aw, that's sweet.”

 

“Yeah, and Enjolras sometimes let me sleep in his bed when I was scared.” Jehan giggled. “He tried to be a big, tough teenager, but when there were storms Cosette got scared too and we'd all pile in together. He doesn't always let it show, but his dad's rubbed off on him.”

 

That had Grantaire intrigued, but he decided it might be in poor taste to press for details about Enjolras right that moment. “Sounds like a hell of a guy.” He was glad Jehan at least had someone there for them.

 

“He is.” Jehan nodded enthusiastically. “The whole group's blessed to have him. We all call him Papa. I'm sure you could, too, if you wanted to join us.”

 

“Hmm, more like Papa-in-law, would be what I'd like,” Grantaire murmured. He flashed a grin at Jehan. “I'm sorry, was that out loud?” Still, he wondered what it would be like, being cherished by...anyone.

 

Jehan's face fell a little, but they brightened quickly. “I heard you kind of liked Enjolras.”

 

“Kind of?” Grantaire laughed. “He's just – perfect. Too good for me, though, I know.”

 

Jehan shook their head. “I don't know about that. He's a man, like any other man. Flaws and all that. I mean, he's a really great guy. I consider him my brother. But...he can be pretty oblivious. He doesn't understand subtlety. Emotions can be kind of hard for him to process. He really cares about people, too much for his own good sometimes. But action is his thing. He'd rather produce results to show how he feels.”

 

Grantaire wasn't sure if it was a warning or an explanation. “Well, at least he won't play mind games.”

 

“Oh, no, never.” Jehan shook their head. “He finds that kind of thing exhausting and pointless. Which it is, really.”

 

“Agreed.” Grantaire scrutinized Jehan, trying to read them. “I'm sensing a 'but.'”

 

Jehan shrugged a little, sighing. “I just...wouldn't hold your breath. I don't mean to discourage you. Unrequited love has its own sort of beauty. But it's hard on the heart.”

 

Grantaire laughed. “Well, I'm already fucked there. There's a hole in my heart without him – but, hell, there'd be a hole in my heart  _ with _ him, so...”

 

Jehan grinned. “I love people who can appreciate poetic humor.”

 

“What's not to appreciate?” Grantaire asked. “It's great. But, seriously, you're trying to tell me my odds are low, huh?”

 

“If he goes for anyone, I'd think it would be Combeferre or Courfeyrac, honestly,” Jehan admitted. “But I don't see him making a move unless he's pushed in that direction. Combeferre's been feeling more than friendly toward him for a long time now, but unless she speaks up...she'll be waiting awhile longer. He's aro-ace, I think. He's never said exactly that, though he wears an ace ring sometimes. But it's how I read him. He loves people, but levels beyond friendship and family just don't cross his mind.”

 

Grantaire would have been more disappointed, but he'd never really thought he'd have much of a chance anyway. It still stung, but a voice in the back of his mind constantly told him not to get over-invested.  _ You do this. You put him on a pedestal, and he can't see you from that high up. So you argue to get his attention, and he thinks you wish to antagonize him. _ Grantaire couldn't place it, and the voice wasn't his own, as he was used to hearing it in his head. It must have been a dream. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd put all his attention into idolizing someone, only to be let down. “Fair enough. Thanks for the heads-up, I guess.”

 

“I don't mean to discourage you.” Jehan touched Grantaire's arm lightly, but their grip solidified when Grantaire didn't resist. “There are exceptions to rules. You never can say never. But, at the same time, why shut yourself off to other possibilities while you wait?”

 

“Because no one exactly wants to get hooked up with someone who's chronically ill, except in young adult novels,” Grantaire replied dryly.

 

“You might be surprised,” Jehan said. “I know they're harder to find, but some people look past the surface.”

 

“Why do you care?” Grantaire asked, and he didn't mean it to come out as bitter as it sounded.

 

Jehan blinked, tilting their head. “Why not care? You seem like a good person.”

 

How the hell could this kid have been so hurt by the ones they should have been able to trust most in life, then turn out so pure? Unless they  _ were _ totally naïve, but Grantaire didn't believe that. “That's where you're wrong. I'm not a good person. I'm a bitter, alcoholic asshole. Entirely not worth wasting your time on. Especially not someone like you.”

 

“Why do you want to push me away?” Jehan asked innocently.

 

Grantaire's instant reaction was defensiveness, and that only made him realize Jehan was right. “Because you're young. You're like this little ray of sunshine, and I will absolutely not be responsible for dampening it.”

 

“You don't know me or my life.” Jehan crossed their arms, but they were smiling. “You don't know how a friendship would affect me. I appreciate your concern, but I've learned the hard way who I can and can't trust in life. I'm willing to take a chance on you.” They held up a hand to forestall Grantaire's protest. “Even if it's at my own risk. My choice. You wouldn't deny me my own agency, would you?”

 

“Of course not.” Damn, they were good. Grantaire sighed, relaxing. “I'm sorry. I'm just...this is new for me.”

 

Jehan pulled a small notepad out of their bag, nodding. “I understand. I've been there. But I discovered there were a lot more benefits to friendship than risks, once I learned who to trust.”

 

They were definitely a lot wiser than Grantaire had been giving them credit for. “And how did you do that?” he asked genuinely.

 

Jehan smiled and shrugged ever so slightly. “It was a lot easier than I thought, as soon as I started to trust myself.”

 

* * *

 

 

The one constant in the Fauchelevent household was love. Foster kids came and went, though there was always at least one picture of each of them on the walls, hung proudly with the other family portraits. No matter where they went in the world, this was a place they could always return. There were a couple dozen honorary family members, their pictures added to the mix as well. Love and loyalty – for one's friends, family, and community – were obvious as core values to anyone who entered this home.

 

Normalcy, however, was considered highly overrated.

 

Jehan, with their writer's mind and flair for the dramatic, kept a log of some of their favorite “random quotes without context” heard in the home. It was both for the memories and potential inspiration. They had a small set of guidelines – obviously nothing seriously embarrassing, no intentional literary or pop culture quotes. (This kept the list manageable, as Cosette often amused herself by working lyrical quotes into everyday conversations and seeing how long it took Enjolras to catch on. The answer – often quite awhile.) After two years of permanent residence with the family, Jehan was on the last line of their original notebook. They wondered what it might be, that next thing to catch their fancy and close out this volume.

 

Minutes later, Cosette could be heard shouting from the kitchen, “You know waffles bring out the pirate in me!”

 

Jehan giggled, jotting it down immediately and closed the notebook, setting it on their bed. “Perfect.” It was just out of context enough to be intriguing, without raising all the questions of the time Jehan had walked in to hear their father - of all people - explaining to someone on the phone that Billy Boyd was indeed an actor and not a condom brand name.

 

Jehan couldn't deny they'd developed a tiny crush on Grantaire the night they met him, however briefly. They developed crushes quickly; it was their way. Most of them amounted to little, a one night stand at most – though the number of those had dwindled as they got a little better about self-respect. But Jehan's crush was only intensifying in this case after spending more time with Grantaire. He seemed so lonely. A broken heart, literally but figuratively as well. Someone who was so surprised at little acts of human decency had definitely not seen enough kindness in the world, and Jehan wanted to help change that.

 

Granted, it was just their luck to end up falling for a seriously ill man, but it was what it was. There was still hope, after all, for a transplant, for them to have a life together if it ever got that serious. As inclined as Jehan was to fantasize about such things, they could at least remind themselves that no future was ever guaranteed.

 

Cosette grinned, bouncing over to hug Jehan as they came downstairs. “Hey, haven't seen you around much today.”

 

Jehan returned the hug happily. “I was out visiting a friend.”

 

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Cosette laughed. “Marius said he was going to try to join us for dinner tonight. I think it'll be great for him to meet Papa finally. He's a little nervous.”

 

Jehan snickered. “We all know Papa's bark is worse than his bite. Marius will be fine. From what I remember hearing, his grandfather is a judgmental bastard; it probably puts him on edge for everything.” Marius, to be sure, was a bit awkward, but ultimately well-meaning and Jehan trusted their father would see that.

 

“That's what I told him.” Cosette nodded. “So, have you been seeing anyone lately? We've been running around in so many different directions lately, I haven't gotten proper updates.”

 

“Not many updates to be had,” Jehan confessed. “I met someone I rather like, but I don't want to say much about it yet. It's still too new. I don't even know if he's interested in anything more than friendship. That was a hard enough sell – he's pretty gun-shy.”

 

“Better not jinx it, then,” Cosette agreed, patting Jehan's arm. “Just don't forget, when there is something to tell, I want all the details.”

 

“Of course,” Jehan promised. One of their favorite sibling bonding activities was sharing secrets about their respective romances. They kissed her cheek and headed into the living room to curl up on the couch with a book. If they couldn't live out their perfect romance, they could at least read about it and dream.

 

 

 


End file.
